


Shoulda Known Better

by pillsandpearls



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Not What It Looks Like, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillsandpearls/pseuds/pillsandpearls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Derek that finds him. Derek that wraps him up in that precious leather jacket of his like some puppy he's found on the street, and it's Derek that drives him to the hospital like Grease goddamn lightning. It's Derek that saves his life, really. Trust that asshole to be the one to take it away again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm fine

**Author's Note:**

> Take heed of the tags, please, chickens. This is not a happy fic for a fair few chapters, so keep yourselves safe.
> 
> *This fic is not running alongside canon. Erica and Boyd and Isaac are all safe and out and about and Jackson didn't ditch to London and Lydia is a banshee. I've also stuck with fandom favourite John as the Sheriff because I think it suits him and I couldn't be bothered to find a new name :) thanks for clicking bros.

They leave him solo after a while – Derek’s out skulking in the waiting room still, Stiles bets, and Melissa said a few minutes ago she was going away to do…something or other. Outside. Somewhere else. She looked particularly frazzled so Stiles can’t really blame her.

It’s a lovely day outside, which is something of a juxtaposition. Should be middle of the night pissing it down at the very least – hell, Stiles deserves some fucking tornado or something, come on now. But nope, middle of September, still clinging to the heat of summer like a forlorn lover or some shit, and a perfectly _lovely_ day. Typical.

That’s all he keeps doing: staring out the window. Stuck there, since he can’t lie on his back. Apparently, he should be out like a light with the drugs they’ve got pumping into him, or they should at least be _helping_ him lose consciousness. Clearly, that’s not sticking. But whatever.

Stiles is _fine_.

He’s completely fine. He’s had worse injuries. Couple broken bones, but who hasn’t in their lives, right? Couple grazes, some real nice ones on his back, but he’s been thrown from a moving car before. He’s all good. Totally fine. Completely and utterly _fine_.

And sure, his…backside’s smarting a little despite the cacophony of drugs, and this is _not_ going to be fun explaining to the pack, or hell, his _father_ , but…he’s good. He’s all good.

Derek needs to stop sulking like a child and come in here, though, because Stiles is bored. Melissa’s no fun to talk to right now because she’s all freaking out and hovering and touching her face with shaky hands – let alone her not being here makes it all a little difficult. Not impossible, but…definitely difficult.

Ugh. Hospitals are boring. _Super_ boring. Stiles is _bored_.

Besides, everyone’s overreacting and it’s getting uber-irritating. Then again, what does Stiles expect when Derek comes fucking storming into the ER like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle with Stiles all _naked_ and passing out in his arms. Stiles could have walked. Gone home, gotten some clothes, maybe. Forgotten this had happened. Soaked in the tub until he had to go back to school…tomorrow. Ugh. That sucks. Everyone had stared, someone got him on a gurney with Derek’s stupid leather jacket still draped over him (does very little, as it turns out) until Melissa McCall had come flying down the corridor in a way terrifyingly similar to Derek’s entrance and practically bowled into the two of them. Derek’s heavy breathing. People are backing away as someone pushes the trolley bed somewhere else, and Stiles is…okay, Stiles is blacking out a little, but he’s had a very long night. To be expected. And he’s also The Sheriff’s Son. Huge red flag.

Avert eye contact. Avert-avert!

So yeah, people are freaking, Stiles is bored to the excess, and John still hasn’t gotten here yet. Which is cool. Busy being the Sheriff and all that. Fair enough. Not that bad. Stiles is fine.

“Hey, kiddo,” comes a voice, and Stiles doesn’t need to awkwardly try with the rolling over to figure out that Melissa’s back. Stiles grunts from his hibernation of too many blankets and pillows because he’s selfish and Melissa’s nice. “The doctor’s here, she wants to do a quick check up.”

Ugh. More poking and prodding. They’ve already exhausted a number of bodily orifices that need checking over, what more do they want? Stiles looks like a mummy with the number of bandages right now. He does not need more.

“M’fine,” he grumbles into his cast. It’s not comfortable, but his hand ended up by his face somewhere between them letting him lay down and never getting up again and he can’t be bothered to move it now.

“I know, sweetie,” Melissa says. She’s being awfully nice to the someone she found putting cellophane on all her toilets two years ago. A little immature – Stiles isn’t proud of it – but Scott deserves to leak pee. He _deserves_ it. “We just need to check the bandages.”

Uuuuugh. Why? They’re bandages, they’re covering his leaky bits, it’s fine. Christ. Everything’s _fine_.

“ _No_.” Maybe the drugs are working a little. Maybe. But who’s fault is that hmm?

“Stiles – ” Dr Patel says before she’s being shut off with a gust of breath.

Melissa cuts in neatly. “Please, Stiles…she just wants to check everything’s in order, okay? Kiddo…we said hourly checks, it’s been an hour. Please?”

Yeah, but the checks don’t just mean ‘checking bandages’, do they? Stiles is bandaged and dressed and as comfortable as he’s getting right now, so that’s gonna have to do. No. Besides, it’s hardly been an hour. Melissa left, like, ten minutes ago.

She moves into his line of sight, so Stiles stubbornly starts picking at the edge of his boring white cast (they didn’t even ask him if he wanted a different colour, how rude is that?) like it’s personally offended him and needs a staring contest to be put back into its place. She perches on his bed.

“Where’s my dad?” he asks. Curiosity, mostly. He’s usually gung ho about seeing Stiles in hospital, this is just rude now.

“Should be here any minute. He was out on call in Beacon Heights when they brought you in, no signal. He’s on his way now.” She palms his knee through the shitty sheets. “Stiles…Dr Patel needs to do an update. We need to make sure everything’s going as it should, it won’t take two minutes – ”

Someone else comes stomping into the room then, and says, “Melissa – the Sheriff’s here.”

 _That_ makes Stiles perk up.

“ _Shit_ ,” Melissa mutters, standing again to bustle back round the bed. “We’ll be back in a second, kiddo.”

She leaves. Stiles turns just enough to check that Dr Patel has buzzed off with her, before slinking back into his sheets.

He hears Dad about two minutes later.

Overreacting. Brilliant.

“Melissa,” he bellows, followed by a litany of nervous shushes from various different people. “Where the _fuck_ is my son?”

They mutter something, the other voices – McCall and Patel so far – to which Dad replies, “I don’t give a fuck – take me to my _son_.”

Jesus. He’s not dead. _I’m not dead, Dad_ , he wants to yell, _I’m fine_. He doesn’t because Dad will see in about ten seconds. He’s totally, completely…nearly _too_ fine, in fact. He’s awesome.

Great. Golden.

“Sheriff, you need to calm down,” Deputy Parrish says. Ever the level-headed one. Parrish has been here for ages – he questioned Stiles when they were doing the testing things with a soft voice and a decent enough distance. “Think about it, sir, he’s not gonna want someone bowling into his room screaming, is he? Stop. Calm down. Get your head back on. And then go in and see to your son.”

Ah. Well done, Parish. Very good.

“My son…my son has just been _raped_.”

Christ, Stiles hates that word. Dad says some other things in hurried, nervous, angry words, but Stiles is too busy picking threads from his cast to pay attention – seriously, do they think he can’t hear them? They’re practically on the other side of the door, come on now.

And… _raped_ is a little dramatic. Attacked, okay. _Assailed_ , maybe. And yeah, they got a little personal…pretty damn personal, fine, but that word is a danger word and they don’t need to use it here. In here is…fine.

Takes Dad a few minutes. Parrish comes in instead, a few seconds ahead of him, and comes to stand round by his head where it’s poking out of his mess of blankets.

“Hey, Stiles,” he says.

“’Sup,” Stiles replies. He glances up for a quick second, taking in the deputy’s strained smile before the cast tickles his fancy again and he goes back to war with it.

Then it’s Dad’s turn. Taking his time. Melissa’s with him, and Dr Patel (Stiles bets that’s not particularly willing, but Dad’s a stickler for details, and he’s the Sheriff, so) and they all come and stand by his head like a little overreacting pow-wow. Stiles would turn over just to spite them all, but his back hurts when things touch it, and he doesn’t want to give Dr Patel access to anything in that area, thank you very much.

“Hey, Stiles,” Dad says, crouching down to Stiles’ height. Melissa goes off and grabs him a chair. “How you holding up?”

He’s been crying. Jesus.

“M’fine,” Stiles mutters, trying not to frown for Dad’s sake because he looks pretty weakly dispositioned at the moment and Stiles does not want to set that off.

“Yeah, kiddo,” he says, all soothing and don’t-spook-the-kid-in-the-hospital-bed Sheriff. His hand is heavy when it buries in Stiles’ hair. But that’s fine. Whatever gets him through.

“Stiles – ” Melissa starts, stepping closer.

“No.”

“We need to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Wait, wait,” Dad says, glaring up at Melissa, and isn’t that a sight to see. “What’s this about?”

“We need to perform hourly check-ups on Stiles’ injuries,” Patel says, all diplomacy for the Sheriff, which is cheating. “To make sure they aren’t getting worse.”

“And they’re not,” Stiles mumbles. He shuffles deeper into his cocoon as a ‘fuck you’.

“Stiles, don’t do that,” Dad cusps offhandedly, his fingers getting tighter in his hair. “The doctor says you need a check-up, you need a check-up.”

It’s…not dangerous, by any means, obviously, but…it’s a little too close to home. The hand in his hair. Getting tighter. Not, uh, not fun.

“I don’t need a check-up.” He nudges out of the grip that’s getting a little strong for his liking. “I don’t need any more drugs. And I don’t need people buzzing around me like I’m about to break. I’m _fine_. Everyone can go away.”

In another non-proud moment, Stiles ducks under the sheets like a kitten and pulls them over his head. Moving isn’t fun, but then neither is being stared at by four different people like a failing science experiment.

Jordan Parrish is the first to go, some offhand comment about waiting outside. Then Dr Patel. Then Melissa, with a hand on Dad’s shoulder because Stiles can _hear_ it. Only once they’ve all shut the door behind them does Stiles let Dad peel back the covers again. He’s still all sad faced and droopy, but he offers a smile once Stiles' eyes are out and about again. Well, that’s just sad.

“Hey. You good?”

“Mm,” Stiles grunts.

“Anything hurting?” A roundabout way of saying he needs a check-up, the asshole.

“Nope. I’m great.” Yup. Stiles is an asshole too.

“Alright, kiddo. I won’t make you do anything.” Ha. That’s a first.

He leans back in the chair Melissa fetched, wiping his hands over a weary face. He shoves out a heavy breath.

“They…they did one less than an hour ago. They’ve done two already.” He shouldn’t have to explain this shit, but Dad’s not in a good place right now, and Stiles is feeling nice. “If nothing changed then, it hasn’t changed now.”

“They need to make sure you’ve stopped bleeding in places where you shouldn’t be bleeding. Your back. Under this,” he brushes his fingers over the gauze on Stiles’ forehead. “Any, uh…anywhere else.”

Fuck. They both flinch at that one because they also both know exactly where he means and that is _not_ a cool conversation Father-Son wise. Any wise. _Ever_.

“It’s _fine_.”

“You keep saying that, champ,” John says, brushing his fingers back in Stiles’ hair. It’s not accusing, really. More wondering. Confused, maybe.

“‘Cause I am.” Totally fine.

“Okay, bud. That’s cool.”

 

*

 

They keep him in overnight despite Stiles’ protests about senior year starting the next day. Dad just shakes his head and palms Stiles’ scalp and tells him not to worry about it. He also makes Deputy Parrish fetch him takeout for dinner which is all kinds of abusing power, but one Stiles can get behind. He doesn’t eat much of it, but it’s fine. Dad doesn’t say anything.

Scottie doesn’t come visit, which Stiles thinks is weird and mean, but Melissa says she hasn’t let him in as Stiles needs his rest. Bullshit, because Scott would wrestle her for that on any other occasion. And she knows that. Still. He’ll find out what the wolf’s problem is when he blows this joint and goes searching for the worlds shittiest friend.

Stiles also asks after Derek a total of once a few hours in, only to be terrified off the topic with the look his father had given him.

“He didn’t have anything to do with it,” Stiles had said, trying to crawl into sitting up so he doesn’t spill his green Jell-O (love you Melissa) everywhere.

“Don’t defend him to me, Stiles. Seriously.”

Stiles had shut up, which he felt slightly cruel about considering Derek doesn’t deserve this even if he is a sulker and hasn’t been to visit. He’s a coward, so what.

Besides, Dad’s still…pretty new, on the whole werewolf situation. Best not taunt the wolf. Heh.

In fact, actually…no one’s been to visit. Stiles’ phone is still smashed to pieces (sick fucks they are) on the battered hotel floor so they can’t exactly call him and check, but, hell, they have legs and a decent threat of ripping Dad’s throat out to get past him. They wouldn’t. But if they wanted to see him that bad, they might have done.

He’ll wait until he gets back to school before moaning about it. They might have a decent reason, what does Stiles know. He’s stuck in a hospital bed.

Maybe they’re too busy going after the pieces of shit that attacked him. Wouldn’t that be nice? Give Dad and his endless snappy phone calls a break anyway.

Stiles prefers not to move too much unless he can help it – which includes avoiding leaving the bed at all costs, which irritates Melissa to no end. Fair enough, Stiles is irritating. It also means Dr Patel doesn’t get her check-up for a fair few hours, which makes everyone pissy with him -- he clearly doesn’t think that's fair.

“ _No_.”

“For God’s sake Stiles, she wants to make sure you’re not dying – would you let the woman to her job please?” Dad’s mad and tired and irritated, too.

“I’m not dying. There. Happy?”

“Stiles, please,” Melissa says, kneeling up on the other side of his bed because they’ve cornered him before he can lay back down. “It’s a precaution. You’ve had stitches, we need to make sure they’re not festering, it’s not – ”

“Jesus Christ, I’m fine! Okay? I’m _fine_!”

Stiles is overreacting because that’s exactly what they’re doing. Christ, it’s his goddamn body! _His_. People struggle to understand that sometimes, but that’s the damn truth and that’s how it’s _staying_. He doesn’t even care how offended his dad looks right now, it has nothing to do with him anyway.

“Calm down, Stiles,” Dad says, shaking his head, eyes closed and exhausted. “I don’t understand the problem here, please, for god’s sake, just – ”

“Because I’m not taking my clothes off just so someone can tell me something I already damn well know! Okay? Just drop it, fuck!”

He doesn’t want to get up. He aches, his back is killing him, he doesn’t need his ass probed for the third time in way too short a space. He sure as hell doesn’t want his dad to know in graphic detail the number they did on his body. He’s not stripping for peace of mind in front of strangers. He’s not.

Dad looks stunned, now, which is even worse. Flustered as his eyes flit from him to Melissa and back again. Melissa looks chastised which is a very strange expression to be having, and Dr Patel won’t look anyone in the eye.

Shit.

“That’s…it’s not because of _that_. Okay? I just. Can’t be bothered to move. That’s all.”

Dad still looks like he’s about to puke, though, and that makes Stiles’ heart clench inside his chest.

“Stiles,” Dr Patel murmurs softly, stepping around Stiles’ father so she can get closer to Stiles, sit a mirror image to Melissa on the bed. “I really, really need to do this. I know it sounds like an overreaction right now,  but trust me when I say that this needs to be done. From experience. I understand.”

She doesn’t understand. How could she possibly understand – has she had four separate men shove their way inside her ass? Write a word across her back and brand her with a serrated knife?

_You don’t know._

Stiles doesn’t know.

He also doesn’t care.

“I’m not…” he shakes his head because he’s _not_. “I don’t want to.”

“I know. I know you don’t. We’ll ask everyone else to leave.”

And that makes Dad’s head swing her way, all puckered mouth and pissy eyebrows. Yeah, well. Good. Let him know how it feels to be sidestepped and ignored and pushed out as though his opinion doesn’t matter. Serves him right, really.

But for the first time since they admitted him – and this is completely unintentional, trust him – he really gets a look at the little Indian lady sat on the corner of his bed. His eyes catch slowly on the creases beside her own, the little dark circles and drooping bun tucked behind her head. She’s tired. Fair enough. Dad probably hasn’t let her leave in the near enough whole day Stiles has been here – overreacting, overprotecting – on the non-existent chance that Stiles will let her do the check-up shit to make sure he isn’t bleeding out from his asshole.

In turn that leads to his reluctant eyes straying over to Melissa and then Dad himself and they’re both wearing eerily similar expressions of dark worry and fatigue and a subtle shade of anger that Stiles is pleased for once isn’t directed at him. They’re both just…fed up. Of the situation. Of Stiles. Melissa probably has patients elsewhere that need attending to, and again, Dad probably thinks she’s the only thing keeping Stiles – and most likely himself too – together right now. She might even have meant to clock off, possibly hours ago.

And that leaves Stiles to realise, reluctantly, that this whole check-up crap isn’t just for him, not anymore. With Dad here freaking out and Melissa all hovering again, going to touch him before visibly thinking better of it and backing away like he’s about to shatter open. And maybe he will.

Or he might. If he weren’t perfectly alright.

He sighs loudly, after his few seconds of glancing between the three of them, then peering over at the back of Parrish’s uniform that Stiles can see in the window.

“Fine,” he says, grimacing at the way his voice sounds, all weak and pathetic. He clears his throat before trying again. “Fine. Everyone else can leave and you can do your probing shit, whatever.”

Dad huffs again, puffing up like a disturbed bird.

“Okay. That’s perfect,” Dr Patel says. She bustles in Dad’s way again so she can reach Stiles and grab his bicep, help him to sit up straight and his ribs do _not_ thank him for that. Dad nearly freaks out when he full on whimpers.

“I’m not going anywhere, Stiles,” he says defiantly, once Stiles can ‘comfortably’ swing his legs over the side of the bed, socked feet swaying a little before he can put them on the floor.

“Dad –” Stiles starts, at the same time Melissa says,

“John.”

“No,” he says, his voice back in Sheriff mode, perfectly controlled with just that little hint of domination he gets when people think it’s a good idea to completely disobey him. Yup. Losing battle then. “You are my son.”

“Sheriff, if Stiles doesn’t want – ” Dr Patel tries, but it doesn’t matter. Stiles just sighs and shakes his head.

“It’s fine…I’m fine, just,” he looks up at his Dad and tries to tell him – _not good. Not good at all, please don’t see this_. The Sheriff just glares because that shit scares no man, and moves forward so he can press a kiss against Stiles’ forehead, which is…fine.

Fuck. He’s fucking _fine_.

Melissa leaves with some excuse about checking something or other – John rests his hand on her arm in silent support that Stiles tries to ignore, but she ruffles his hair before leaving anyway.

His Dad ends up sitting on the bed because that’s easier and less awkward when he has to help Stiles stay standing without keeling over because apparently, the drugs can do _one_ thing. So when Stiles slips his tee over his head with his father’s help, they’re both in close enough proximity to each other that John can see every little detail up-close and Stiles can hear his horrified little gasp. It hurts, more than the bruises and the grazes and the broken bones.

But he doesn’t let that break him, not now. He’s gotten this far without a single fucking tear, he can make it the rest of the day. Week. Month. Until he can look in the mirror again and not want to tear his hair out.

But for right now, he’s…fine.

Dad isn’t making the same promise. Stiles turns around when Patel’s cold hands make him, and his Dad sees the stained gauze covering the letters carved into his shoulder blades and that’s fucking that, because he starts crying and Stiles doesn’t want to _deal_ with that right now and Melissa comes back and Dad has to leave and Stiles tries to ignore everything, doesn’t catch anyone’s eye, and lets the doctor do her job as quickly as she can because as it turns out, Stiles doesn’t think he is fine anymore. He doesn’t think he’s fine at all.

 

*

 

Dad doesn’t come back for another hour or so, but Stiles tries not to pay that any attention. He’s been curled back in the bed since Dr Patel told him everything he’d already told her, because, hey, what do you know, check-up did more bad than good. Who saw that coming?

Deputy Parrish comes and sits with him for a little while - probably only because Dad told him to - because Stiles struggles his body into turning away from the man and if the pain that ripped a whine from his throat was any indication, he didn’t need the officer there. Want him. Apparently, he’s on protective detail anyway, because they still haven’t caught the freaks who did this.

Whatever.

Stiles doesn’t care.

And when Dad does come back, Stiles doesn’t look at him. So he can’t see the red rings around his father’s eyes, or the way his hands are shaking when they bury themselves in Stiles’ hair. Neither talk, which is fine. Perfect. They just sit there and wait for the night to go by second by second, breathing the other in.

 

*

 

They keep him in until mid-afternoon on the next day. Prescribed with the good stuff, but Dad’s already made abundantly clear it is under _strict_ lock and key, though Stiles supposes it doesn’t matter anyway, not when he’s got a harem of werewolves to take his pain if he needs it.

Speaking of. Somewhere around hour twenty-two, Stiles got to wondering absently just what exactly Derek’s told the others. No one’s so much as acknowledged his existence since the alpha went skulking off with his tail between his legs, but they must have known something before Derek even found him. Allison probably told Scott even if Derek didn’t. Scott must know the exact extent, and Stiles likes to think his very noticeable absence is because he doesn’t think Stiles wants contact of any kind right now, which is kind of nice, Stiles supposes. Complete bullshit, but sweet in a round-a-bout way. Hopefully all the rest of them know that Stiles is in hospital because he got beat on really bad and then _nothing else happened_. He is absolutely pretty sure he would die if Lydia, or Erica, or fucking _Boyd_ ever found out, because that is _not_ something people need to know. Oh god.

So maybe it’s a good thing they haven’t been to see him. Stiles hasn’t asked his Dad if they’ve come to see _him_ – maybe a tiny, disloyal little part of him doesn’t want to know the answer – so for all he knows they could be banded together in the waiting room in a little campout, which would be totally cute. Maybe Derek told them to stay away from fear of the Sheriff. Heh.

Stiles is walking a bit better now since the drugs have worn off, although he still excepts his father’s forearm when it’s offered to prop himself on because his legs and the entire area covered by his boxers _hurt_.

They’re not in the waiting room, although a few strangers stare at them when they walk past. Stiles sniffs haughtily, nose in the air as he walks by. Parked outside then.

Only they’re not.

In his living room?

Nope.

Fucking…banded together in his bed, who the fuck knows.

But they’re not. His Dad parks him down on his dishevelled sheets, helps him strip off his jeans and plaid shirt (they take care in leaving on his t-shirt because they do _not_ need a repeat) before maneuvering him between the sheets. He kisses Stiles’ forehead and tells him he’ll be just downstairs if he needs him. Stiles says he’s not tired, but Dad just smiles that stupid knowing smirk thing before ruffling his hair and leaving, making sure the door’s left ajar.

Okay, maybe Stiles is tired. Whatever.

 

*

 

Stiles startles awake hours later, when the room is buried in darkness and only the light from the left on hallway lamp slivers into the room. Something in his chest tenses on that alone, because…they only do that – or they only _did_ that – when mom died. When Stiles had panic attacks and nightmares and Dad must think it’s as bad as that now, which makes Stiles want to puke. Fuck. That must be what woke him up. Shit. He does not want those fuckers back, no thank you.

“Stiles.”

Okay, he’s not _proud_ of the noise he makes (neither are his fucking ribs and back, good _God_ ) but who the fuck sneaks up on a guy who was just kidnapped and…assailed. Who the fuck even _thinks_ about doing that?

Stiles flails a little all the while whining in pain and squealing (manfully) in surprise before Derek fucking Hale – that’s who – stalks out of the shadows like a fucking creeper and stands there stripped of his leather jacket staring at him. Fuck sake.

Derek fucking Hale.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Stiles spits, trying and failing to push himself back into an upright position. Christ, his torso hurts. Ow, not fun sitting on his ass either. “Who the fuck creeps up on a guy who just came out of the hospital after he was kidnapped, huh? Also, who the fuck just leaves said guy stranded there so he can go off and sulk, hmm? Derek Hale. Shocker.”

“Stiles.”

“Took your damn time about it as well. Do you know how boring hospitals are, by the way? I nearly died. From frustration alone. Trust you to be the first one to visit me.”

“Stiles, stop talking.”

“I mean I get Dad scares you, but was middle of the night really such a good idea? Where the hell is everyone else, anyway? How are you my first visitor? Scott better be out scouting or dying or some shit because there will be an opening in the best friend department and no offence, you need not apply – ”

“We can’t do this,” Derek says.

That…shuts Stiles up.

“Do what? You’re just standing there.”

Looking like someone just stole his puppy and skinned it, which…Stiles knew he was attached to that leather jacket, but come on. The blood probably won’t even show up, and if it does, Stiles knows there’s a decent dry cleaners not far from his loft.

“That’s not…you could have been killed that night, Stiles,” he says, still looking seriously mopey – well, just as mopey as usual times a thousand. “As it stands, you were…” He can’t say it, which is good. Stiles doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’m…fine.” Not really, but doing okay. He’ll get past it like he always does. Scott will come visit, and Lydia, and they won’t talk about it and he’ll _be_ fine. In a little while. He’ll be great.

“Don’t say that to me, I know when you’re lying,” just like that.

“Humans get to lie about shit like that, it’s how it works,” Stiles snipes, glaring. “I’ve got painkillers, and I’ve had broken bones before, so…don’t worry about me. I’ll be great in a couple days.”

Derek shakes his head a little, glaring down at Stiles’ bedsheets with his stubble and his stupidly pretty eyes. He’s wearing a Henley, which is never fair in conversations. Like a gas or some shit.

“I know. I know you will. But we’ve been talking about it, and,” he sighs, rubbing his long-fingered hand over his face and slumping his shoulder like _he’s_ the puppy. What a weirdo. “And we’ve decided you can’t do this anymore, Stiles. You’re out of the pack. Don’t expect any contact from us, any of us. You’re – ”

He keeps talking, and maybe he expects Stiles to still be listening, but he’s currently hit a wall and his ears aren’t telling him the truth right now.

“You…what?” he says, staring up at the alpha.

“You’re out.” He’s surer now. Like once the words are out he can say them as many times as he wants and he doesn’t give a shit. Can’t see the way they’re making Stiles' ribs fracture further. “We don’t need you anymore.”

“Because I…because they…hurt me? I’ve been hurt before, I’m _fine_.”

“They _raped_ you, Stiles,” he says, and great, he can say shit now, good for him. Stiles can’t breathe.

“You’re joking,” but the prick steamrolls him.

“You’re a liability. The pack was out half the night looking for you when we needed to be focused on something else. We don’t need that. We don’t need you. Just stay away from us, okay?”

He’s…not smiling. Hell, Stiles would be just as pissed if this were a joke because _perfect fucking timing_ , but…he doesn’t think it is. Derek fucking Hale doesn’t joke around. He’s done it. Finally done it. Taken Scott away from him.

Fuck that.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he growls because he is _not_ crying, he’s held off for this long, screw Derek. “They’re my friends. Scott’s my _brother_. He won’t listen to you or your stupid rules. Fuck you.”

“It was mostly his idea, actually. So. Don’t try to make contact, okay? They won’t listen. I won’t listen.”

“Why are you…why would you do this to me _now_?” Stiles wails because fuck this, Scott didn’t come up with anything and he doesn’t fucking care if his Dad hears, let him shoot the bastard.

“Why not now?”

“You’re a fucking coward!” Stiles screams and he can hear his Dad stumbling out of bed down the hall, but he doesn’t fucking care. “Get out! Get the _fuck out!_ ”

“We don’t need you, Stiles. Forget about us.”

And he’s out the open window in the exact same second his father comes bursting through the door with enough force the handle must dig a hole in the plastering, the light slammed on so Stiles can see the terror in his eyes, can feel the way his hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

“What the hell’s going on?!” He roars because fatigue, fear, and anger do not a calm father make, but Stiles can’t tell him because he can’t breathe or speak or look at him, he can just stare at his hands and try not to think too much about anything or anyone and his friend doesn’t _want_ him. His pack. He thought…he thought they _liked_ him, at least respected him, valued his opinions, his research abilities, his decision-making skills.

This was the perfect excuse to get rid of him. When he’s beaten and bloody and _raped_ because there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Who was here?” his Dad says, clambering onto the bed beside him and grabbing his shaking head between his hands. “Stiles, who the hell was in here?”

But Stiles shakes his head because that is all the man is getting out of him tonight whether either of them likes it or not, and in that short second John seems to realise Stiles’ breathing isn’t fucking happening begins guiding him through it tucked against his side, gray eyes scanning the rest of the room Sheriff sharp in case Derek is still hiding somewhere ready for when John leaves him alone again.

“Dad,” Stiles whines, crawling closer because fuck it, that’s why. “Daddy, don’t leave me. Please. I’m…I’m not okay.”

“Sshhh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Dad says, rocking him against the man’s side. “I know. It’s alright, I’ve got you. No one’s coming near you right now, I’ve got you.”

It sets Stiles off again, but he doesn’t care.

Because his Dad is fucking right.

No one’s coming near him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested in betaing I would be amazingly grateful!!! E-mail me at pills.and.pearls@outlook.com


	2. mostly fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY!!!!!!  
> OMG guys I can't believe how long this piece of shit has taken to publish again, I'm so sorry to anyone who was waiting, I was just as frustrated as you! Apparently moving out and away to uni is stressful, but finally! Chapter two!!! Enjoy!

“This is a joke, right?” Fifteen calls on his shitty new phone, twenty nine texts and five hours twenty minutes since Derek fucking Hale ‘broke the news’ and Scott fucking McCall is finally deigning Stiles important enough to acknowledge again. Whoop-de-doo. “Scott. This is some fucked up prank, right?”

The asshole breathes a heavy sigh into his cell like this is all too stressful for _him_. “I’m not gonna pick up again. Okay?”

“Just – you answer the goddamn question, Scott,” Stiles growls back. He’s currently hunched over in his desk chair because of course this is the phone call Scott decides to answer, when Stiles is half way from shuffling from his sheets to the bathroom to pee. And _nothing else_ , because those pills are not that good. “This is a late April Fools, isn’t it? A really shitty, badly timed joke that we’re going to have a serious conversation about once you finally drop this stupid charade and –”

“Stiles. It’s not a joke. You’re out of the pack.”

“I don’t…Jesus, I don’t give a _fuck_ about the pack, McCall,” it took five hours, twenty one minutes, and some serious Derek Hale hating, but Stiles came to that conclusion. He can handle life without the pack, no big. “You’re my brother,” his voice doesn’t break. It _doesn’t_. “I…I fucking _need_ _you_ , man.”

Scott growls into the phone and shuffling sounds, like he’s standing up. Ready to deal the blow.

“That’s not – Stiles, this isn’t because I…because I don’t want to be _around_ you anymore, that’s not what this is about, okay? You nearly died that night, dude. Because of me, because of Derek – those pieces of shit nearly _killed_ you. Don’t you get that?”

“Yeah Scott, funnily enough, I do,” Stiles snipes dryly, repositioning his weight distribution on his throbbing ass. “But kicking me out of the pack, pretending I don’t exist…that’s not your freaking call to make, asshole. Because of my _safety_? Seriously? Because fuck you.”

Another sigh. “It is, actually. We’ve already decided anyway, so. You can find some new friends, one’s that aren’t gonna get you killed. I’m sorry. I’ve gotta…I’m gonna go now, so. Bye, Stiles.”

“Don’t you fucking hang up on me, you piece of shit, don’t you fucking dare, you hear me? Scott? _Scott?_ ” Stiles gave his life trying to help that good for nothing piece of crap pack of theirs and this is what they do? Kick him out like some misbehaving mutt? Huh? “Goddammit, you…God, you _dick_!” Sleepless nights and bruises and broken bones and now…now letters scarred into his shoulder blades because of them, and one fucked up way to lose your virginity and this is what he gets? For the pack? For helping them? “You piece of fucking shit! Screw you! I _hate_ you! I hate you!”

He _hates_ them. He hates Scott, and Lydia, and Alison because she knows, she was fucking _there_ , and he hates Jackson because he’s probably pissing himself with joy, and he hates Derek Hale. He fucking _hates_ Derek goddamn Hale.

“Stiles.”

He doesn’t want to need them. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want his only friends to be werewolves and hunters and banshees because wouldn’t life be lovely if life was normal. But it’s not. Stiles didn’t choose that. But he made the best with what he could and he saved their hides more times than they could count or even goddamn _realise_. Well. Let’s see how long they freaking last then.

Let’s see how well they do without Stiles.

Those dicks.

“Sweetheart.”

Stiles leaps about a foot in the air when a hand comes down on his shoulder and his father’s face appears inches from his own, all creased in worry.

“Hey.”

“Jesus, pops,” Stiles hisses, trying to calm his breathing back down from _shitshitshitshit_. One panic attack a day, he decided, and that is a final negotiation. He used up his daily quota earlier this morning and he is _not_ having a repeat, thank you very much – and sure as shit not where his dad can see him.

“Sorry,” the Sheriff replies slowly. His steely cop gaze flickers not-so-subtly to different destinations on Stiles’ battered face; graze here, bruise there. Stiles averts his own eyes and focuses on his dad’s stretched out t-shirt collar. BHPD, and old as shit, and oil stained in the bottom left hand corner. “You okay, kid?”

 “They kicked me out,” Stiles says, nodding, because this is real now. “They kicked me out of the pack and now Scott won’t even talk to me.”

“What?” Of course it doesn’t make sense. Why would it? “Why would…I should think ten plus years of friendship would be more important than some werewolf fan club.”

Stiles takes a second to stare up at his father and those steely cop eyes. Because he believes that. Naïvely. Like Stiles did, ten minutes ago.

“Yeah, well. Me too.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Did you not hear the screaming? Because that was our calm, diplomatic conversation. About why Scott McCall is a raging asswipe with no backbone or brain cell to spare for himself.” Stiles runs a hand over his hair (good God he needs a good shower) and eyes the rumpled sheets of his bed, then pros and cons the three yard trip to the toilet. Ugh. “Have you heard from Melissa?”

The Sheriff mirrors him, sighs, and messes with his own hair, then reverses himself and perches on the edge of Stiles’ bed. “She called earlier. Scott didn’t come up though, I have to say. Not our main concern right now, kiddo.”

Stiles scoffs and looks longingly towards the ajar bathroom door. He really does need to pee.

“Right. Well, next time you talk let her know her son’s a dick, okay? Tell her to pass it on?”

John snorts half-heartedly. “Sure thing.”

“Mm.”

A bland silence stretches out between them for a few seconds. Stiles watches as his dad’s steady gaze starts at his toes – just as scabbed and gross as the rest of his body because when those fuckers stripped him they didn’t do it half-heartedly and Stiles is a kicker – moving slowly upwards to bashed in knees, scraped raw thighs, boxers, and scabby fingers picking at his cast. The sheriff may or may not go a little green. Stiles doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t exactly looked in the mirror yet but from the feel of most of it, he must look like fucking Frankenstein.

The poor man’s trying to be subtle about it, but Stiles can see him gulping, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Oh, God.

“Please don’t cry again.”

Those grey eyes snap to Stiles’ in an instant; a guilty, exhausted smile spreading across the old man’s face.  

“Who said I was gonna cry?” He wipes at his eyes anyway, bless him.

“Right.”

Another dull silence.

“You hungry?” John says. “I can go make us some breakfast, unless you feel like going out somewhere.” Stiles stops himself scoffing at that one. Barely, but he manages. “We’ve got bacon.”

“You’re not supposed to be eating bacon.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Then sue me. Do you want bacon or don’t you?”

“Nah,” Stiles says. He has a dismal feeling that trying to force food down his gullet right now would end in disaster and as fine as he is, he’s not entirely sure how well _either_ of them would take that. “I’m not really hungry.”

It’s been a long morning, in his defence. A long week. A long fucking year, it feels like, and they’ve barely tapped September. He just wants to curl up in bed and sleep and be ‘not fine’ until Scott and the rest of the Scooby gang get their heads out of their asses and come grovelling on their knees to apologise. Fuck, he’s just… _exhausted_.

His dad’s staring at him again.

“So I’m gonna go pee and…maybe go back to bed. Unless you wanted to talk some more,” Stiles says, knowing full well what the Sheriff’s answer will be. The Stilinski’s don’t do feelings unless it’s a life or death situation. Unless they can _really_ help it.

They’ve already exhausted their monthly quota in the last near week anyway – last night sure as hell didn’t help. Christ, Stiles is trying to forget that. He’d called his father _daddy_. And _sobbed_ on him. And then Dad had spent the next few hours trying to coax him off the edge of the worst panic attack since his mom died and isn’t that a fantastic way to start the day.

That is not gonna happen again.

Fucking Derek’s fault. What kind of shitty timing was that, anyway? Stiles had barely stopped bleeding from those fuck-knuckles, barely had five hours sleep since Derek dragged him to the hospital and then he comes skulking in like some nineteen-fifties vampire and kicks him out of his family. Just fucking…banishes him. Like he has the right.

God, what a ginormous fucking _dick_.

“Not unless you want to, kiddo,” John says, standing up. “Let me know when you get hungry, okay? I’ll be downstairs.”

“Will do,” Stiles says.

“And I’m gonna find a therapist,” his dad says, pausing at the door. “For you. Melissa’s got some recommendations, so I’m going to give them a call, see what we can set up in the next few days. Okay?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He is not going into detail. About anything. Ever. So what the hell is the point?

“I don’t need a therapist. I’m fi—”

“I know, Stiles. Do it for your old man though, huh? Peace of mind?”

Well, that’s just not fair. Although he can’t really blame the guy after last night.

Another eye roll just to seem authentic, and Stiles waves John out of the room, waiting for the door to shut after him with a benevolent chuckle before curling his way out of the chair and manoeuvring to the bathroom like a freaking ninety-eight year old with two hip replacements and a busted knee. Suffice to say, he does not pee standing up.

 

*

 

Melissa visits them later that day, bearing gifts of food and a list of therapists she’s circled and annotated like that’s something she couldn’t have relayed over the phone. She pokes her head in Stiles’ room for a total of two minutes, before she realises the cocoon is back and Stiles is buried under it with no intention of resurfacing until his sheets crawl away from the stench.

She says, “they miss you at school,” like that’s supposed to make him feel better and, “Scott says everyone’s wondering where you are,” which is a fucking joke because Scott is _such a goddamn coward_ he couldn’t even tell his mom what he’s done. Typical.

She leaves when Stiles’ only reply is to grunt and shift moodily under his pillows.

Dad comes in a little after lunch time with a sandwich and pain meds and an order to “eat,” which Stiles ignores, then returns an hour later for a twenty minute long lecture about why Stiles should, in fact, be eating. It would probably be shorter if Stiles’ replies had stretched beyond blinks, but he doesn’t care. He’s drained, right now.

John leaves – to call the therapists, no doubt – and Stiles spends the rest of the day peeing as limitedly as possible, dozing, taking his pills, and not eating, mostly so he can avoid doing anything _other_ than peeing on his skulking trips to the bathroom.

Tomorrow will be better. Today…today’s a vacation. From reality. From dealing with life and Dad and Melissa and thinking of Scott and Derek and his friends ‘missing him at school’ which is clearly fucking bullshit, because no-one’s made contact. Not that he has any friends outside of the pack, and the ones he _did_ have are clearly uninterested with anything Stiles related at all anyway. Which is fine. Stiles just needs the rest of today, and tomorrow he’ll deal with it like a human again. Like good old, hyper-active Stiles.

He’ll be fine.

Tomorrow.

 

*

 

He doesn’t sleep through the night – wakes up screaming with his Dad petting him like an overfed lapdog and the sheriff’s eyes swimming in their own tears, but they don’t mention it the next morning. Stiles remembers it vividly because it wasn’t a dream so much as a teleportation to the first guy shoving his way in, but John doesn’t ask and Stiles is sure as hell blocking it from his own mind, let alone letting Dad in on the nightmare.

He has a shower, like a normal person – his Dad isn’t around to see him _not cry_ so it doesn’t have to count because showering _hurts_ – and stumbles downstairs to eat breakfast at the table like every other human in the world in sweatpants and the baggiest t-shirt he could find. His dad looks pleased, so bonus.

“So there’s a centre in Beacon Heights,” he says, once he’s satisfied Stiles has finished a butter slathered slice of toast and rewarded him with his morning pill. “One on one therapy, and group sessions, once you feel up to it.” He slides over a couple of print outs – help hotlines, information packs, one that says ‘mankind’ on the front, and another that proclaims VICTIM SUPPORT in loud letters. They look good. Informative. Stiles may or may not turn green.

“Yeah,” he says, shuffling them about a little with his fingertips. “Cool.”

“And I gave them a call earlier, they said they’ll have someone free whenever you feel ready to go down,” John says. Stiles can feel the infamous Sheriff Stare, and pointedly doesn’t look up – maybe his Dad can be a little…oblivious sometimes, fair enough. But John Stilinski is never stupid. And Stiles doesn’t think he can handle a ‘talk’ right now, even if they are discussing therapy.

Today is a normal day. Stiles is being _normal_.

“You know, I’m pretty sure these kinda places are for women? Right? I mean…they all look particularly feminine, and don’t get me wrong, Pops, each to their own, but –”

“Hey,” Dad snaps, not unkindly, but sharp enough for Stiles to shut up. “That is not true. Okay, yeah, the ratio’s probably a little uneven, but the lady on the phone specifically said they have more male clients than most people might think, and they cater to everything that might entail.”

Stiles snorts. “I think the fact that you even had to ask is proof that that’s not true.”

John narrows his eyes half-heartedly at his son, leaning over to pick up the centre’s pamphlet and thumb through it. “I didn’t _ask_ , actually,” he says. “I mentioned ‘my son’ and the woman told me how not unusual it is for them to counsel men, in case we were wondering. They even have group sessions just for guys.”

“Mmm.”

The sheriff huffs and slaps the leaflet back to the table. “Well, if you don’t like that idea, we can find a private therapist in town. I don’t mind which, but kiddo…you’re not getting out of this. Okay?”

Stiles had guessed that much, with all the phone calls and pamphlets and Melissa-visits and meaningful stares. He’s made as much peace with the idea as physically possible right now.

“The centre sounds good,” Stiles says. He scratches distractedly at his cast. “I’m guessing a hell of a whole lot cheaper, too.”

John shakes his head, stands up, and rounds the table so he can press a heavy kiss onto Stiles’ damp hair. “You let me worry about that, sweetheart. You just focus on healing, let me do the rest.”

Yeah. That sounds fake, but okay.

 

*

 

It takes them the rest of a shitty week to get things a little more…organised. There’s a couple more nightmares (at least two a night now, let’s be honest; Dad’s taken to more or less camping out at Stiles’ door); a few of the worst showers in Stiles’ pathetic little life (again, what the old man doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and Stiles makes sure he’s quiet); and Melissa calling round after her shifts for twenty minutes or so every single damn day with similar declarations of Scott’s exaggerated, lonely experiences without Stiles at school, which isn’t helping anything, or anyone, but whatever. Either the woman still doesn’t know, because Scott is the biggest fucking dick around, or he has told her, and she’s just brushing it away. Ignoring the problem, acting like everything’s normal, like they’ll just glaze over it. Like this isn’t the longest Stiles has been without his ex-best friend since third grade.

Which, whatever. Stiles is fine with it.

He’ll deal.

Their first counselling session goes by on the Friday, and Stiles doesn’t feel any different. Therese is nice enough – she lets Dad join them in her office where they sit side by side on an overstuffed couch, and she chats at them about options and sessions and says things like “it’s not your fault” and “we’re all here to help you get through this,” which is more or less exactly what Stiles was expecting. Nothing new. She convinces them to come back in a few Thursday’s time (“whenever you’re feeling up to it, honey,”) for the young-person group therapy session. Dad looked eager. Stiles agreed for ease.

They talk about it Saturday night over spaghetti and meatballs and agree Dad should go back to work. They also agree Stiles seems healed enough to return to school, and although Stiles puts up the expected amount of fuss, but they both know John would be more than comfortable with him staying home for a while longer. Only problem is, they can’t exactly put it off forever.

 

*

 

Sunday night and Stiles may or may not be regretting that decision. He hasn’t spoken for most of the evening, which (humiliatingly) led John to circling the small kitchen table and pulling him into a loose, one-armed, manly hug, and kissing him on the crown of his ridiculously messy head before immediately assuming the reasoning behind Stiles’ sudden freak out is because they haven’t caught the pricks that did this yet. Stiles doesn’t bother correcting him. Not necessarily because he’s not pants-shittingly terrified of running into the masked bastards again, because believe him, he abso-fucking-lutely is, but…going back to BHHS with no friends, no Scott, no… _nothing_ is a hell of a lot more gut-wrenching than the prospect of running into those guys again, and doesn’t that say something.

But Dad seems to have taken to skimming over that particular speed bump the last few days, and Stiles is pretty okay with it staying that way. Like the man doesn’t have enough things to be worrying about – he does not need Stiles’ inherent inability to make friends and keep them weighing him down on his first day back at work. Besides, Stiles is pretty sure the whole ‘no longer in a werewolf gang’ thing is maybe the best news he’s heard all month. So he’ll let the man have that.

“God, we should really head to bed,” John says, clicking the TV off with a flick of the remote and stretching his arms above his head; dislodging Stiles where he settled maybe a little too closely against him about an hour ago and hasn’t moved since. He flops back into the cushion to compensate. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“Yay,” Stiles says, twizzling his finger in the air, though it’s more out of show than anything else.

“Hey,” Dad says softly. Ugh. “You don’t have to go back tomorrow, you know.” A hand settles on Stiles’ shoulder, and a callused thumb rubs against the skin of his neck that’s bared by his old t-shirt. “We can wait a couple more days. A week even. Give yourself more of a chance to heal.”

“No, it’s fine,” Stiles says, sitting up. “Now or never, right? Besides, I’m gonna have shit loads of work waiting for me already, I don’t need to give them any extra time to pile more on.” He attempts a smile – how well that gets delivered is really answered by the too-soft kiss that gets planted on his forehead.

“Fair enough,” John replies, eyes crinkling in a smile. “When d’you get some mature, huh?”

Stiles offers a grin. “What can I say, it’s a brand new me.”

“What do ya know,” John laughs.

They say goodnight.

Not that it comes as a surprise to anyone, but Stiles does not sleep well.

In what used to be an agonising, two-a-night occurrence, the nightmares have evolved into night terrors of mega fucking proportions, and Stiles wakes halfway through the first with his back bowed, sheets tying his legs together, and mouth open in a silent, terrified scream that he bets if his Dad had witnessed would have freaked him the fuck out. Ditto, and all that.

Terror number two happens in his desk chair because he hadn’t actually planned on losing consciousness again (hence sitting up the rest of the night), but he wakes up however long later with his Dad’s own swimming eyes inches away and a sob caught like a frog in his throat that only lessens when his head is bent between his knees. John’s hand stays in his hair for the next twenty minutes, and although he tucks Stiles back in, and they’ve both got at least two more hours before they need to be up and actually facing the world, Stiles would bet his life on neither of them sleeping another wink.

His dad’s alarm goes off first. Two seconds later, Stiles hears the familiar whack as the sheriff hits it to mute, and ten minutes following, Stiles does the same to his own.

He climbs out of bed.

Goes to the bathroom, back straight because he needs the practise, cleans his teeth, washes his face, rubs a hand over his hair, and avoids glancing in the mirror for as long as he can help it, because although he’s had over a week to heal, he’s still definitely got the whole vampire-Frankenstein hybrid look down, and well. Not a pretty picture.

He dresses in the most worn in pair of khakis he owns, a plain grey t-shirt, and the red hoodie he’s spent most of his worst days in. It’s clean and soft and perfect, and once he’s yanked on his old Nikes, pulled the backpack over one shoulder and sorted himself out, he takes a look in the mirror hanging over the back of his door.

It’s…not _great_. He looks like he’s slept exactly as much as he has, all dark circles and whatnot, and the grazes marring more or less the whole left side of his face have healed the tiniest possible amount, so he still looks like he’s been dragged over concrete face first. The black eye’s not swollen anymore, more pink and yellow now than anything else, and the rest of the bruising has followed suit, so. Not _too_ bad. And if Stiles keeps his sleeves pulled low with his fingers, you can barely see the cast.

So all in all…it’s manageable. Nothing screams out _‘rape victim’_ if he doesn’t part with any of his clothes in the presence of others, so the whole mugged shtick he’s heading for should be easy enough to pull off.

He can do this.

Absolutely, no problem.

He’ll just…avoid them. Make new friends. Danny’s cool right?

A soft knock rings off Stiles’ door, and he moves forward to open it, revealing the Sheriff, dressed to the nines once more in uniform and jacket. The man offers a surprised half smile and leans against the door.

“Okay, so you’re ready,” he says, eyes flitting over his son.

“I told you, today’s the day,” Stiles replies, giving his own half-hearted grin, then sliding past his father and heading to the breakfast table. “I’m prepared and raring to go, Daddy-o.”

“Uh-huh.”

There’s pancakes, which Stiles eats half of (the toilet situation, by the way, even worse than he imagined) and a packed lunch that the sheriff hasn’t made him in about ten years sitting on the counter which he takes with an eye roll and shoves in his bag.

The Sheriff drives him in the cruiser all the way to the administration building where Stiles is to pick up this year’s timetable, and parks.

Silence surrounds them for a few minutes, while the rest of the school starts waking up for the morning, and the other early students mull around in the parking lot before heading inside. They’re terrifyingly close to the spot where Scott usually parks his bike (please Jesus let him be late). Stiles refuses to look.

Just in case.

“You call me if anything happens, okay?” Dad says, turned Stiles’ way and eyes fixed like a blaze on his son. “School security knows your situation –” Stiles gapes at him, scandalized, “ –not everything, kid, don’t give me that look. They know to keep an eye on you because the Sheriff said so, and they know that you’re not to go anywhere by yourself outside of school. Not unless an officer’s there to pick you up. Okay?”

“Dad, I know, I’m not gonna go anywhere,” Stiles tries, but the look his dad shoots him summarizes the chances of winning that particular battle. He backs off with a dramatic eye roll.

“There’s gonna be a cruiser parked out front at lunch, just in case. I’ll pick you up after school, and if I’m late for any reason, you stay inside and wait for me or Parrish or another deputy, but I’ll text you if I can’t make it. Alright?”

Stiles sighs, “‘Don’t move without supervision’,” he says. “Got it.”

“Good boy,” Dad says, leaning over and kissing Stiles’ forehead. “You want me to come in with you?”

“Dude no, people are staring enough as is. I’ll text you at lunch. See you later, dad.”

“Okay. You call me if _anything_ happens, okay? I’ll drop anything and be here in seconds. Promise.”

“I know you will,” Stiles mutters a little sardonically. He clambers out of the cruiser. “See ya.”

“Have a good day. Love you, kiddo,” the sheriff manages, before Stiles slams the door on him.

“Love you too,” because the man’s had a shitty week and it’s the least Stiles can do.

Again, eyes averting from Scott’s usual space, Stiles pushes through to the building in front of him, waves to his dad as the man drives away, and approaches the mean, narrow looking lady behind the desk.

She glares at his bruises before actually acknowledging him, and Stiles grins, a little dopily, and waves. “Long story; involves Russell Crowe, Finding Dory, and a chainsaw. Don’t worry about it.”

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t find him funny.

“Name.”

“Stilinski.”

She rifles through a few papers on the desk, clicks around a bit on the computer, before sighing, reaching to the printer, and handing Stiles the still warm bundle of papers. “Arrive early to your lessons, Mr Stilinski. Your teachers need to sign you off.”

“Will do.”

They don’t exchange pleasantries. Stiles is cool with it.

The school’s filled out a little as Stiles moves out into the open – cars are parked around him, kids loud and obnoxious and laughing, and Scott’s bike is parked and he’s not on it.

That’s…that’s good. They’ve avoided the first encounter, that’s perfect.

Stiles checks his list: AP Chem with Harris to start the Monday morning, fan-fucking-tastic, but at least that means no Scott. Lydia, inevitably, but…no Scott.

He can do this.

Fuck.

He’ll _have_ to do this.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys can think of any other tags, let me know.  
> Also comments and kudos give me life. Just to let you know.  
> Also also this won't be so depressing the whole way through, poor Stiles ~,~


End file.
